That Elusive Roast Duck

Ralph Gardner Jr. Finds He Can't Go Home Again After a Restaurant Closes

Sept. 9, 2013 9:20 p.m. ET

Some restaurants are still missed years after they close. It's not so much that their departures leave holes in your soul, or even your stomach, as that they competently filled niches in your diet, or in your daily routine. In my case, they also had in common that they didn't break my wallet.

There was Mocca, a Hungarian restaurant on Second Avenue in the 80s. For less than seven bucks at lunch you could get a hearty cup of soup, wiener schnitzel with nicely roasted potatoes and, for dessert, palacsinta—thin pancakes filled with apricot jam and dusted with confectioner's sugar.

Another stop on my culinary rounds was the old-world Éclair pastry shop and restaurant on West 72nd Street. Whether your palate craved petits fours, seven-layer cake or an elegant cherry napoleon, Éclair had it. And though not a restaurant, Schwartz Out of This World Chocolates, which used to be situated virtually next door, is on my list as well.

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At the Czech restaurant Hospoda, the beer kegs are visible through the bar made of glass.
Claudio Papapietro for The Wall Street Journal

Call me forever young, or just plain juvenile, but rarely do I walk along West 72nd Street without thinking: "One of Schwartz's vanilla creams would taste great right now."

One more name in this pantheon of local restaurant greatness: Ruc, a Czech restaurant on East 72nd Street with a lovely garden. There, for approximately $14—we're talking probably 1979 dollars—you could get a full dinner, which included the best half roast duck in town. I'm sure of this because my father, who knew his Czech food, first took me there.

It was the desire to rekindle the fond memory of roast ducks past that led me to Hospoda, another Czech restaurant, on a recent evening. I suspected there might be some sort of cosmic karma at work because, situated on East 73rd Street in the Bohemian National Hall (which also houses the Czech consulate), it's a stone's throw from where Ruc used to be.

Another selling point is that the restaurant features Pilsner Urquell beer. There's also a familial connection: I'm not sure whether my dad, who had an advertising agency, ever represented Pilsner Urquell, but I do remember him telling me that he visited its brewery in Pilsen, had the beer fresh and that it constituted a peak experience.

Also, my parents' bar was stocked with long beer glasses bearing the Pilsner Urquell insignia, the shape meant to reduce the foam-to-beer ratio, no matter how fast you pour. Even though I didn't develop a taste for beer until well into college, I like to think of those glasses as part of the fabric of my life.

Despite my high expectations, Hospoda still came as a surprise. As I said, it's in the Bohemian National Hall, an elegant Neo-Renaissance building, and all the more unexpected because it's on a motley side street off Second Avenue.

The restaurant itself is modern, with backlighted woodcarvings by the Czech graffiti artist Masker. High communal beer-hall tables with bar stools fill the center of the space, and overlook the individual dining tables. And lest anyone misses the message that beer is integral to the experience, the bar is made of glass, the better to view the kegs of quality beer chilling behind it.

There's even a window in the floor showing through to a cave, or crypt, or basement, and I believe more beer. But I'm not certain because, by the point in the evening that I traversed it, I'd had more than my fair share of Pilsner and, gazing between my feet, the experience induced a minor case of vertigo.

Hospoda serves its Pilsner with fanfare and in four different installments. It starts with Sweet, or Mliko. I was fairly skeptical since it was all foam, and I was raised to think foam a bad thing. But it tasted incredibly fresh and sweet.

"The amount of foam affects the flavor," explained Stephen Rhea, Hospoda's maitre d'. "The more foam, the lighter and sweeter."

That glass was followed by Slice, or Snyt, which had slightly less, but still four fingers of foam. An explanatory postcard describes this formula as possessing "a refined bitterness and velvety mouth-feel."

I don't know about the bitterness or velvety mouth feel: It just tasted great, and different than Pilsner in bottles.

In a perfect world, the Slice would have been followed by Crème Urquell, described as the classic way to drink Czech pilsner, with a thick head but mostly beer. The final variation was to be Neat, with no head at all.

Also in a perfect world, that Crème Urquell or Neat would have been accompanied by a crispy roast half duck, just like the one I used to get at Ruc. But, apparently, you can't go home again, or at least to your favorite defunct '70s restaurants.

Duck was nowhere to be found on the menu. I'd been led to believe that the menu was "beer-inspired," but the schnitzel was the only entree paired with a beer; the rest were with wine.

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The shrimp with grilled watermelon
Claudio Papapietro for The Wall Street Journal

Just as a side rant: Who came up with this "pairing" concept/trend (though it seems a genius way to run up a tab)? Particularly when you're happy with your beverage, and at a place that serves its Pilsner Urquell as sensitively and as well as Hospoda, why court disappointment by switching to another beverage every course?

All I really wanted was duck and beer, but I was somehow persuaded to have the seven-course tasting menu with beer pairings. Although, also on the tasting menu, none but the first course—beef tartare with chive mayonnaise, egg yoke and pretzel bun—came with the suggestion of a Pilsner Urquell.

The meal, created by Hospoda's new chef, Rene Stein, the former chef de cuisine at Seasonal, was exquisite, both aesthetically and edibly. A few of the standout dishes were shrimp, grilled watermelon, pickled cipollini and lemon; beef tenderloin with Cabernet Sauvignon jus and pureed peas and carrots; and "Chef's Garden," one of the more inventive desserts I've had lately: Its component elements include white chocolate sorbet, pistachio rocks and honey-glazed root vegetables in a bed of barley soil.

Mr. Stein even threw in an extra course—crescent duck breast with butternut squash. "I do like whole roasted duck," he admitted when I pressed him, but he meant at home. He suggested cooking it at low temperature, but then cranking up the heat at the end to get the skin extra crispy.

Indeed, the dish on the tasting menu that came closest to what I was really after was the Berkshire pork belly, accompanied by a tantalizing slice of crispy skin.

So, as delightful as the meal was, my quest for a restaurant that serves both Pilsner Urquell and a half roast duck—preferably at $14, or whatever that comes to in 2013 dollars—must go on.

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